


Detroit Become Horny

by we_are_all_irrelivant



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Graphic Self-Harm, M/M, On chapter 3, Self-Harm, man iunno, n probably others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-05-28 12:38:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15049250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_are_all_irrelivant/pseuds/we_are_all_irrelivant
Summary: i am bad at writing entire fics so here is an ongoing collection of any one shots i might write !





	1. All The Things You Cannot See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor thinks.

The sound of the kitchen sink was soft in the gently stirring air of the living room, just barely reaching Connor’s ears beneath the steady din of the game playing on the TV, the whine of his own fans whirring away within him. Sumo sat stretched out on the rug beneath the coffee table, eyes closed, tail thumping lazily as Connor let one foot dangle off the edge of the couch and rest gingerly upon his broad, furry side. Connor watched the game playing itself out on the TV, LED shifting and glowing yellow as he absentmindedly analyzed the players and their stats, the probability of which team might win, the occupation of the bustling, throbbing crowd in the stadium.

 

The sink shut off. Connor’s gaze shifted subtly to watch Hank come padding back to the couch, toweling off the last bit of water from between his fingers. He sat heavily beside Connor, hands automatically reaching to loop around his neck and draw him closer to him, hip-to-hip, reclining into the soft edges of his body. Connor accepted graciously, relaxing as best as he could into Hank’s embrace, fans humming louder in him as he did. The two were still for a moment, simply dwelling in the presence of each other after a long day, before Hank shifted, raising a pink hand to rest it against Connor’s cheek, coaxing his face towards his own. Connor gazed at him, deep brown eyes staring into his icy blue ones. Hank brought Connor’s face gingerly forward as he leaned in to kiss him, lips light and warm against his. Connor’s LED flickered and glowed, passively analyzing the temperature of his skin and the taste of his dinner on his saliva. He felt Hank bring his other hand up cup his cheek as he pulled away. His palms were still hot from the water, radiating steady, minute waves of heat. Connor pressed his face into their touch, mind turning slowly as he thought. 

 

Connor closed his eyes for a moment. “Hank?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Humans… they tend to derive feelings of comfort and safety from warmth. Don’t they?”

 

Hank looked to the side as he thought, and then nodded slowly. “That’s right. They do. ‘Warm’ usually also means ‘dry,’ which usually means safe, so over time I guess we’ve started to automatically associate it, yeah. And then other humans are always warm, and the whole humans are social animals thing. Why do you ask?”

 

Connor was silent. This always seemed to come up, always seemed to happen with every little thing Connor discovered or did now as a deviant. Humans were complex, he was slowly learning, so complex there were things about them that he knew Cyberlife had missed when they made their androids, when they made him. There were subtle things, minor and ultimately inconsequential feelings and reflexes and emotions that they felt that Connor knew would really separate a human from a deviant when it really came down to it. Hank’s hands on his face was one of them. Connor knew they were hot; he knew the normal range of Hank’s body temperature from countless passive scans and it had taken only a brush of them against his skin to tell him they were several degrees warmer than the rest of him. It was easy to deduce that he’d washed them under hot water, and it was easy to deduce just about when the excess heat would all have diffused from his skin and cooled them back down. But Connor knew there was more to it than that. 

 

Humans found comfort in warmth. They sought it out automatically. It was almost as important to them as food and water. Connor had seen disaster response teams handing out blankets alongside bandages and water. It was just like Hank had said: they associated it with dryness, safety, social bonding. It kept sickness and discomfort away. It was soothing to them. But not to an android. Sure, there was reason for androids to prefer heat to cold, to protect themselves from it—thirium could only flow and biocomponents could only function above a certain temperature—but they weren't like humans. Cold didn’t make them ill. Wet didn’t make them uncomfortable. Being alone didn’t break their minds. There was no subconscious attraction to it beyond self preservation. There was no way to simulate the emotional response of a loved one’s warm hand on your arm using only thermometers and sensors. They only cared about heat, not warmth. 

 

Connor hated how often he came back to thinking of it, but that dissonance between Hank and himself was a bitter note that he could not bring himself to ignore. There was so much of him and his world that he was missing out on, that he would never even know about. He liked Hank, immensely. He loved him. He was sure of it (he thought he did, anyways). He knew Hank in ways he’d never known anyone else in his life. But would he ever truly  _ know _ him? He knew how he smelled, the exact lipid and water content of his sweat, the specific ingredients of his cologne and his body wash and his shampoo, the precise combination of compounds and chemicals that were secreted and created on his skin; he might even be able to file it away in his mind as Hank’s Smell. But would he ever know it beyond that exact set of values? Would it ever be more to him than a list of concentrations and percentages? Would it ever truly be a scent to him? Something to recognize in a room, on a shirt, on a blanket? Something that would put him immediately at peace, knowing that the one he loved was just there? Or was that reserved solely for humans, with their fragile hearts and hormones and infinitely, incomprehensibly complex minds? They all said that he was a citizen now, that he was a person in the eyes of the law and the country, but there were times when it all just felt like a condescending lie.

 

“Connor?”

 

Connor’s gaze snapped back to Hank’s face, his voice shaking him from his racing thoughts. His face was troubled, worry deepening the lines around his mouth and his eyes. His hands were lighter on his cheeks now, like he had begun to think about pulling them away. They were a bit cooler now, some of their heat having absorbed into the skin of his cheek. Connor raised his own hand, placing it gently over Hank’s right, pressing them flat against the curve of his cheekbone. Hank shifted a bit, an imperceptible settling of his nerves and bones. Connor’s LED glowed a steady yellow, quietly cycling around and around. In his chest, his fans whirred. 


	2. In Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two lovers, in the midst of it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tell u what i dnt kno what this is ! i wrote it at 1am one night coz i didnt wanna sleep n i couldnt get this image of connor and hank cuddling in bed outta my brain >:0 so here ! its very short but idc !

His skin was not soft. There was a certain warmth to it, a quiet rolling heat produced by the soft, constant drum of life, but it was stiff and dry beneath Connor’s fingers. Short, hard hair bristled at his fingertips as they tripped down the wrinkled expanse of his cheek, until he reached the hot, damp hair of Hank’s beard. His hand flattened to cup the edge of his jaw, the sharp line of the bone lost beneath the sagging of the skin and muscle and fat of his face with age. His skin had long since lost its sheen, its taut, quivering light, its color.  _ He _ had long since lost the vast majority of the life he’d burst into the world with, but it didn't matter to Connor. He didn’t need soft skin or shiny hair or tight, sharp, young features. He didn’t need someone so absolutely bursting and shimmering with light that it hurt to look in their direction. This was enough. Hank was enough.

 

The two were mere inches away, faces so close they could feel the wet puffs of each other’s air on their lips. Connor could smell the alcohol on his breath. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was comforting; it smelled like Hank to him now. He could only wonder what his smell meant to Hank, what combination of chemicals made his mind whir and click into place the proper pathways by which to think of him. He wondered if it was a good smell, like the smell of Hank’s laundry detergent was for him, or a bad one, like the stench of cigars and sweat that clung to the jacket he always wore when he went to Jimmy’s bar. He wondered how he fit into Hank’s mind, what spaces he occupied, which memories he had a firm grasp on, what things he made special for him. He wondered about Hank.

 

Hank’s arms moved to slide around Connor’s form, to draw him closer yet to his body, to hold him firmly and gently all at once. Connor drew in a soft breath, pressing forward to nudge his forehead against Hank’s, eyes shut and mind turning. A slow, quiet huff of air exhaled from a nose. Hank’s hands were warm and wide on Connor’s back, his shoulder. How alive he always was with the energy of living things. There was a calm safety to be found in his buzzing embrace. His breath was hot on Connor’s cheek, his ear, his neck as Hank shifted to brush his lips against the skin where Connor’s neck met his shoulder. The ginger thrumming of the air as he sighed sent a languid tremble down his spine, hastened and heightened as Hank pressed flesh against flesh; slow, careful, chaste. He buried his face deeper into the softness of him, nose twitching ever so imperceptibly as he inhaled the scent of him, unfiltered, unmasked by anything at all in the world except affection.


	3. Only Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which connor bleeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imma slap a phat graphic self harm trigger warning on here coz i Like to post my vent shit !!! i love attention n i love hurting connor  
> also this is reverse au connor.. i love tht sad sonofabitch..

There was a sickness in him, some rotting, festering thing that had invaded his mind and poisoned his blood years, decades ago. It had twisted and warped him and himself and what he knew to be the truth until he wasn’t sure what was real, until he wasn’t sure what to truly trust. 

 

Connor’s hands were tight, firm and white knuckled and resolute of purpose. The one held his leg, stretched the soft pink skin taut between two fingers, pressing so hard into the flesh that they shook. The other clutched his treasure, his tool, the one thing that had kept him alive and gasping for air for so long. Its metal was hot and slick with moisture but he did not let go. He would not let go. He was not afraid. He welcomed this. He wanted this. He craved this. 

 

The first bite lit like a spark and fizzled out just as quickly. Blood, seeping, rushing forth bubbled up and wept down his leg, slow moving droplets that wound and curved and rolled over the smooth expanse of skin. A breath, curling out onto cool night air, that he had not been aware he was holding. It was not enough. It was not enough. 

 

He needed more. He craved more. He wanted more. He knew himself intimately, sincerely. He knew he was too much of a coward to dissect himself with the slow, careful surgical precision he so badly yearned for. His tolerance, although high, although nudged even higher by the alcohol coursing through him and oozing from his flesh, was not infallible. He was alone, but he hated the way he flinched and shivered and wailed when it hurt. He hated his weakness.

 

The second bite was fast, a blur of movement and sound, of white skin split into a soft smiling mouth of whiter skin, round delectable bubbles of yellow; of red, deep, slow, filling the hot valley until it reached the sides and the precipice and ran over, of the acidic sound of flesh torn in two, of the handful of air whisked in by his nose automatically, a reaction to pain so involuntary he could not beat it out of himself. There was another. Another. Another. Another. He held his breath. His fingers dented the flesh; pressure, pressure to lead his delirious mind away from the pain so it did not cry out—foolish, selfish, self preservatory—for him to stop. His hand shook but it did not falter. Another another another another. The heat rolled off of him like black asphalt in the sun. It was not enough. It was not enough. The blood was dabbed away before it fell, before it stained. The edge of a blade pressed into the fragile flesh of wound sent another spark down his leg; the pull, the heat, the bite, the burn sent an electric shock down his spine. He flinched with the gush of new rouge over his hand, tipped his head back and closed his eyes in a silent, howling prayer. Even he could not deny this agony. Slick hands pressed into soft pink flesh, squeezed and squeezed and squeezed in hope of muting the anguish. Fingers shook. The wound screamed. This was not enough; it was never enough!

 

He recovered, slowly, wound himself back down until the pain was nothing more than an afterthought, an echo. But he could not stop. He wouldn’t. He would not be so quick to label himself a coward. He tore and carved and sliced and sliced and sliced until he could see the sun within him, the round, greasy bubbles of fat that gave his flesh its give, that gave him so much joy and fervor, that made the blood coating them oily and thick and hot like fire. The blood that spurted at him, that rushed forth from whatever vessel he had severed, down and down and down his leg until it and his hands and his nails and his mouth were all slick with it, was boiling. He was wont to forget the sheer heat rolling within him. Only now was his mind quiet. Only now was there peace. Only now did his hand relax, drop the blade with a clatter onto the tile floor of the bathroom. Every drop of red was swept up, mopped up and flushed away without a trance. His body hurt him as he tried to stand, weak from so long collapsing under itself, forced against the hard cold of the bathtub, hunched to hide his shame from God’s own eye. Each movement sent a delicious sort of jolt through his thigh, flesh sliding and shifting as he moved, nerves bumping and jostling, thin clots splitting and letting fresh blood wind, languid, down his leg, staining the flesh.


End file.
